Lee Dunn

Lee Dunn has been writing since the age of 18, but found that work got in the way for the ensuing 48 years. In his home town of Toronto, Ontario, Canada, he reveled in his independence at an early age, and spent as much time as he could exploring the city’s Arts scene. He was introduced to poetry and prose by the works of two literary giants, namely J.R.R. Tolkien and J.W. Lennon and thence fell in love with the written word. His work includes poetry, short fiction, and personal essays, and ranges in theme from the surreal to the horrific, nostalgic, and themes on the human condition. He has been published on Spillwords.com, Crepe & Penn Literary magazine, and the Shelburne Free Press.

Dramaturge

I was one for Drama, but the frame was the thing. I wanted only to be the swelling strings, the muted xylophone, the kettle drum tympanic. I would whip the most mundane into the unforgettable. Make you think your sadness into music. All in allegory of our mad desires.

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Rewind

Drawn to baby anythingsshe isSeeks to protectto nurtureBut if the thing growsand gains stubborn volitionthen on she must moveto find another small oneto teachto loveto know the duality of joyandtake tearful vengeanceon an old giant

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Melting Man

Melting Man has the night terrors Malignant faces Pointing fingers Nodding to each other with icicle noses long hands and obscene gestures ~Man of the Melt~ Cover yourself! Fold ye down into the foam where mildewed spirits cannot roam Call ye spiders and millipedes home!

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Weird girl

She felt like a foot with uniform toes. Something to cover, but familial to her apartness. In her years, she picked up tools both shiny and showy, but of the wrong life. Fools’ gold, valued as real, was lost on her. Untrainable. Mulish, they said. Others of us knew differently.

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Temptress

A still pondpadded with liliesdappled with netted sunCicada humMy green restPlease-pocket the stoneand let it alone-I’ll paint youas someone sepiaand fleetingby this bower’s dome

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Shirt tales

Don’t commenton my dirty shirt,if you please.I am not inclinedto change it,lest I have bad luck again.This morning, the skyfavoured me with gull droppings.At lunch, it was blueberrieswithout a bib.Then, coffee,spilled by the infernal cat,who likes blueberries too.

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In 3 pieces

Disks of tarnished silver made their advent over the bay, trailing their tatters of cloud remnants. And I believed. Oh, I believed. What has come? I believe that I will rise the next morning. A fifth part of me will study the textbook of motion, be credulous of the day’s tumbling numerals. The dots on […]

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